


Cinnamon Hearts

by Kae



Category: Riverdale (TV 2017)
Genre: Angst, F/F, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Humiliation, Masturbation, Shame, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-19
Updated: 2017-04-11
Packaged: 2018-10-07 22:29:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Underage
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,642
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10371165
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kae/pseuds/Kae
Summary: Cheryl mourns her brother, but grief is making her weak. The only other emotions she can access are vengeance, and lust. It burns sweetly, like cinnamon hearts.





	1. In Jason's Bed

Cheryl missed her brother. He was the only one she trusted. He was the only person who didn't want anything from her, not power, not an image, not sex. He understood how dangerous it could be, being too pretty, too different. People gravitated to them, but were not…kind. He knew what it was like. Jason was the only one she was truly herself around. She didn't have to perform. Not like with their parents, not like with the Vixens, with anyone. Even Josie, the only girl near her level, who understood the strange loneliness at the top of the social ladder, wouldn't hesitate to tear her down if she faltered. As would Cheryl. Out of respect of course. It’s better to be torn off the throne in battle than to slide off it, slipping down into the loser pile. Josie knew that. 

But Jason had been something more than a cohort, he'd been her true confidant. And she'd thought she'd been his as well. But now he was dead, and had all these plans with Polly Cooper that she hadn't known a thing about....

She was crying again. It came over her in waves, the grief. But she was tired. So tired of being sad, being at the whim of her emotions. She had shamed herself, running from the pep rally like a child. Shamed their whole family, as her mother said, showing weakness. The Blossoms are delicate and beautiful yes, but must always be strong as a sharpened stainless steel blade, spotless. Even a spot of rust would mean she wasn’t a true Blossom. She tried, but it seemed all she could do lately was be as weak as a pale pink bleeding heart, crushed on the pavement. 

Cheryl rolled over in the bed, her long copper curls draped over the corner of the white bedsheets. The blue, boyish pillow lay next to her where she had been hugging it, although it had lost her brother’s smell weeks ago. Her mother insisted on washing all of his things, cleaning up, though Cheryl wanted everything to stay as he left it. She sat up, wiping her face. She would not be at the mercy of this. She had never let an emotion control her this way before, and the grief would not win. 

Oddly the only other emotions available to her were vengeance and lust. She couldn't be happy, exactly. But she could enjoy tearing others down, the dark tingling thrill it gave her to know someone deserving was suffering. Or somewhat deserving. 

Humiliation, shame, as long as it wasn't hers - it was delicious. It tasted sweet, with a lovely burn, like cinnamon hearts.


	2. On Jason's Pillow

Oh, the anger that precipitated it all, how it jolted through her body and sizzled at her fingertips. She was always angry lately. Angry that the world had taken her brother from her, angry that…. just angry. It was hard and brutal, restrained fire directed at her target in small waves to cook them _just so_. Like that little bitch, Betty Cooper. Cheryl felt like her bones were on fire, but she saw an opening and took it. She was going to get that little minx…

Cheryl was sitting on her brother’s bed, staring down at the blue plaid pillowcase. She had the corner bunched in her hand, clenched so her nails made indents in her palm even through the cotton. She wanted to scream, but swallowed that feeling, and felt it drip like lava through her body, transforming it, leaving her cool and nearly chilled. She remembered, Betty, that awful wilting flower, that stupid lank ponytail that always reminded her of the drooping tail of a golden lab caught doing something it shouldn’t. Her stupid, stupid puppy dog eyes when Cheryl had told her she didn’t make the cut. Such a limp, sad person. Stupidly defended by that city girl. If Veronica wasn’t protecting her, Cheryl could, well, she didn’t like to brag - but she could ruin someone’s life. Easy.

When Cheryl saw a split in their two-person clique, the electricity in her veins sizzled and cracked up to her teeth where it stopped, hissed, and she opened her mouth to smile her friendliest most vulnerable catching-flies-with-honey smile. Betty Cooper was so easy to fool, like a dog, loyal to anyone that gives it a bone. A bitch, in all senses of the word. Cheryl spun the bitch in her web, creating a glittering tapestry of friendship as they relaxed in their massage chairs, Cheryl’s veins prickling with the thrill of the falsity of it all. The anger in her heart, her veins, her fingertips never ever spilling over, always controlled. She was bristling with it. Juxtaposed with the smooth cooing words she pulled out of her creative source to catch her prey, like a spider with its silk. Her grin was a wolf’s, under perfect lipstick and curls. Little red riding hood was the wolf all along. Betty, a poor defenceless loner in the woods.

Cheryl let the pillowcase go, staring at the little red imprints on her palm, the blue cotton fabric crinkled and slightly damp from her sweat. She ran them over her mouth, feeling the dents in her skin run over her lips, she could almost smell the slight saltiness of her damp palm. Why did her mother have to wash all of Jason’s things? Was she trying to erase him from their lives? Destroy any trace of his existence? Was she hoping to rent the room to an exchange student? Cheryl growled low in her throat. Her control was slipping. Her skin was on fire. Her teeth clenched. She remembered having that bitch in the palm of her hand. She wanted to crush her. Destroy her. But she couldn’t control the anger. It didn’t stay locked neatly behind her throat where it belonged.

Cheryl knelt up on the bed, straddled the stupid not-Jason’s-pillow-anymore, her hands clenched into the case, creasing it more, damp. She was sweating. But she felt cold inside. She _had_ her, had her _right there_. She could have pumped the little bitch for information, but she let her emotions get the better of her. She had her like putty in her hands, Betty practically _melted_ when Cheryl told her she liked her bedroom, straddling her on her lap, their faces centimetres apart.

Cheryl’s teeth were clenched, her body a mass of coils, but she remembered being calm and collected and sizzling with electric power as she straddled the little puppy eyed bitch and tossed her a bone - “no, I like how girly it is.” Her sweet wolf’s grin perfectly applied like lipstick.She could have done anything, and Betty would have melted like butter. The pure vulnerability of that girl made Cheryl sick to her stomach.

Her body clenched, the pillow being crushed in her hands, she coiled inwards and hugged it again, her body a carapace on top of the soft thing she couldn’t wrench apart with her hands. She arched her back, pulling the pillow taught, caught under her calves and still clenched in her claws. To be soft, to be vulnerable, is to be weak. Hadn’t she learned that by now? To cry, to huddle, to let her muscles be lax. The shame of it all. There is no pleasure in her own shame.

Cheryl remembered, sitting astride her prey, tilting its blushing cheek to the side, exposing the carotid artery. Such vulnerable creatures humans are. One little slash. One little bullet. And our fire is snuffed out for good. Like. Her. Fucking. BROTHER. And the delicacy with which Cheryls body hummed with electric anger, the sizzling way she brushed the cheek she wanted to smash in with a baseball bat with the soft, soft brush, the smooth, perfect cooing words, like spun glass — it all shattered with her accusation. The way Betty’s eyes shut down, her openness closed off, she shielded herself with clanging metal shutters falling down and locking as Cheryl couldn’t back up fast enough. The steel, the iron, the will in the wilting flower, vulnerable labrador, it scared her off, and she was here, here, here in Jason’s bed alone and unable to punish his killer because she had failed failed failed to control it all —

Cheryl’s skin was burning. She was sweating lava. She could feel the heat of her own body reflected from the pillow, the sheets, smell her own sweat. Only her own. Her body was throbbing and radiating with the heat of her anger, and she would she would she would fix it all, they would all see - she was back there, straddling that Betty bitch with her ponytail, hands in it, tearing it off and leaving the bloody scalp behind, nails cutting through the soft flesh on her cheek and biting into that neck and watching the life drain, no, burst forth out of her victim’s body as her legs thrashed beneath hers, feeling the pulse wrack the body of her prey and her own heated desire mingle as she smiled with her fangs covered in blood.

Cheryl took a shaky breath. She was so close, but grinding on pillows was never the best way to get off. She had ground her heel under the pillow into the part of her that was most burning, but it wasn’t enough. What the hell was she doing? This was her _brother’s_ bed, her dear, dead brother, oh the desecration of it all! But, well, it would taste so good. She was burning. She was on fire.  The sizzling electricity positively jolting her to gasping. And she just wanted to explode, so she reached down and closed her eyes, and soon they burst with red fireworks, raining down the blood of her enemies, as aftershocks sizzled sweetly through her veins. It was deliciously hot and sweet. Like cinnamon hearts.


End file.
